


Gone South

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The awful results of yours, truly *bows* putting out a 'drabble'-call. ficbitca_bear's prompts were 'Xander/Larry' and 'handcuffs'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone South

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine by a long shot.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set during BtVS "Graduation". Vague spoilers.

"You're not Houdini, you know. Just quit struggling and relax."  
  
Xander glares in his kidnapper's general direction. The effect is kinda ruined because of the heavy burlap sack over his head--which doesn't even let in light, forget letting  _out_  glares--and the fact that he's on his stomach, on the back seat floor of Larry's car.  
  
He rattles the handcuffs again, and only succeeds in chafing his wrists a little more.   
  
"I don't even know why you're fighting this—-you should be thanking me."  
  
Another ineffectual glare, and if Xander gets some kinda nasty infection from these cuffs—-he _really_  doesn't want to know where Larry got them or what Larry used them  _for_ , pre-Xander-napping—-and dies, he'll haunt Larry till his dying day. . . .  
  
Or whatever.  
  
"Shit, if I'd stayed in Sunnydale—-helped you guys out with your little plan—- _I'd_  be dead, by now. I  _know_  it. And if you weren't so damn stubborn, you'd admit that  _my_  life isn't the only one I saved."  
  
 _Isn't the only one you wrecked--my friends are fighting evil, maybe_ dying _and I'm not fighting with them!_  
  
Xander  _would_  say that, but the gag's on pretty tight. All that comes out is an angry huff that's not worth the near-swallowing of tongue that comes with it.   
  
So he lays there, itchy and uncomfortable in his graduation robe-—the cap had fallen while he was still unconscious—-chafing from the handcuffs and unable, even, to right himself. Listening to Aretha Franklin sing about freedom.   
  
 _Irony's a mother. . . ._  
  
Larry's car whizzes smoothly down what Xander assumes is a highway, past the first other car he's heard since coming to sprawled on Larry's back seat with an aching head, and a funky taste in his mouth.   
  
The voices and music blaring out of that car?  _Todos_  en Espanol.  
  
With Sunnydale being closer to Los Angeles than the Mexican border, that doesn't necessarily mean jack, other than they've gone south. But Xander's got a terrible feeling. . . .   
  
 _Oh, God, where're you taking me?!_  Xander demands, only it comes out as “Gahgh! Mmmmphrglegrmpheee?!” But Larry seems to understand him, anyway.  
  
“My Uncle Greg keeps a houseboat in Cabo—-he was gonna let me use it for a few weeks as my graduation present but . . . with the way things were going, I figured now was as good a time as any to go.” Larry's cheerful tone falters a bit. “I just didn't want to be alone, you know?”  
  
 _Oh,_ you _didn't wanna be alone? What about me, trapped in a car with the same guy who once shoved pez up my nose till I started choking? What about my friends, facing down a Mayor-snake-demon without moral support-guy?_  
  
There's no amount of grunting and honking that'll get  _that_  across, and Xander sighs—-but it sounds like a sob to his own ears, and tears start trickling down his face.  
  
“She can take care of herself, Harris. Hell, I like Buffy's odds of surviving a giant snake demon better than I like my odds of not getting hit by an asteroid next week.” Larry snorts. “If anyone can save Sunnydale, it's her. But if she loses . . . whaddaya think'd happen to you? Nah, guys like us are better off heading for high ground.”  
  
 _What do you mean_ guys like us? Xander tries to communicate with another indignant huff.  
  
“You  _know_  what I mean, Harris . . . breakable guys.  _Ordinary_  guys.”   
  
 _I'm not—-okay, I may not have the super strength or the fancy book smarts or the magic—-or grace and hand-eye coordination, but I have--I'm_ not--  
  
But In that moment, it's driven home that Xander  _is_. Irrefutably, indesputibly  _is_.  
  
Ordinary.  
  
Xander sighs again. Knowing Buffy, Willow and Giles, they  _did_  survive. Just fine, and without him.  
  
Big surprise. A Slayer, a Witch and a Watcher don't need an ordinary guy to help them save the world.  
  
And he should be  _glad_  that they don't need an ordinary guy, 'cause they sure as hell hadn't had one-—at least not a  _Xander_ -shaped one—-on their team.   
  
He should be  _super_  glad that he's not there, getting in their way, getting himself killed or vamped, or eaten. They can focus on the real threat, as opposed to saving his ass every five seconds.  
  
Yeah, and how many hours has it been since Larry gave him what was, in retrospect, probably drugged Diet Mr. Pib? Or has it been days? It sure  _feels_  like days. . . .  
  
He couldn't have been out for  _days_ , could he?  
  
No, it was just hours. Hours in which the world obviously hasn't ended. There haven't even been any reports of giant snakes-monsters on the loose in SoCal on the Motown stations Larry seems to favor.  
  
They saved the world without him.  
  
And sure, that doesn't feel great, but it is kind of . . . a relief.  
  
“Hey, being ordinary isn't bad,” Larry's going on in a if-Mr.-Rogers-was-a-teenage-jock sort of voice. It's the voice of every PSA Xander's ever heard. “We were born that way, just like we were born gay; if you can embrace that-—be brave enough to help  _me_  find my way out of the closet--then embracing your ordinaryness is gonna be a piece of cake. And even if it isn't, well . . . you were there for me when I needed you, and so the least I can do is return the favor.”  
  
It's insane troll logic—-especially the part about Xander having embraced his gayness—-but it's logic, nonetheless. Buffy  _did it_. She always does it . . . saves the world. She may have needed Giles and Willow, but she hadn't needed  _him_.  
  
Again, not gonna win first prize for Best Feeling Ever, any time soon, but Xander can live with it. Especially since, well, he's still alive.  
  
Thanks to ol' Larry, who actually isn't  _such_  a bad a guy, once you get past his tendency for soda-spiking and Xander-napping.  
  
And, life-saving aside, Xander's not quite ready to overlook those particular tendencies.  
  
He yanks on the handcuffs in frustration; unexpectedly, Larry's big gay hand drops onto his head, warm, gentle and comforting even through burlap.  
  
“It's a moot point, anyway,” he informs Xander. “I mean, we've been on the road since I picked you up at your house this morning. Highschool's  _over_ , Harris, and we survived. I'm pretty sure the world survived, too. And it's not like you've got anything better to do than hang out in Cabo on the beach for a few days, maybe go to some clubs—-shit!”  
  
The car swerves, throwing Xander forward. Larry swears again, and the big gay hand disappears.  
  
Xander tries to de-wedge his head from under the driver's seat with limited success.  
  
“Sorry, Harris. Guess I should keep my eyes on the road and my hands upon the wheel, huh?” Larry's laugh is nervous, stilted-—reminiscent, in fact, of every nervous, stilted laugh Xander's ever brayed on every sweaty-palmed date he's ever had, and--  
  
 _Oh. My._ God.  
  
“Yeah, um, Uncle Greg's boat is kinda cramped—-it's really only got the one room, so we're gonna be bunkmates, looks like.”   
  
Another nervous, Larry-laugh and Xander's already trying to dislocate either, or both of his thumbs to  _get the damned handcuffs off!_    
  
“Hope ya don't snore, roomie. . . .”


End file.
